The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds

“Use her.” William turned and blew out the candle on the table. “We’ll use everyone we can. I want the queen and her son out of there by fall.”

  “I know you’re upset,” Nana said quietly. “We did all we could to save the king, William.”

  “It’s not your fault. He didn’t give you enough help.” William came toward the bed. “I find that curious.”

  “Monsieur has only limited means.”

  “Does he?” William lay down beside her and drew her into his arms. “It won’t happen again. This time we have to be certain.”

  “We will be.” Nana’s hand moved down his body and then stilled. “You don’t want me?”

  He held her closer. “Perhaps later.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She nestled nearer to him. “I like this too. During the day I forget how lonely the night can be. I don’t like the night.”

  He kissed her gently. “Then go to sleep and it will soon be over.”

  Silence fell between them and presently they both slept.

  “You took the money to the café last night?” Jean Marc’s words were measured. “I told you I’d escort you there tonight.”

  “I wanted to give them the livres right away and you had to go to see Monsieur Bardot yesterday.” Juliette bit into her croissant. “So I decided to go by myself.”

  “With two million livres. In case you’re unaware of the fact, Paris is teeming with thieves who’d like nothing better than to slit your throat for ten livres.”

  “All went well.” Juliette sipped her hot chocolate. “I need to go out today to purchase paint and canvas and it’s becoming troublesome hiring a carriage every time. Now that we don’t have Dupree to worry about, will you purchase a carriage and hire a coachman?”

  “You’re changing the subject. Are you trying to distract me?” Jean Marc asked.

  “Yes,” she said bluntly. “And I’ve already told Robert to hire whatever help we need for the house.”

  A faint smile touched Jean Marc’s lips. “You’ll not be scrubbing any more floors?”

  “I’ll be too busy.” She pushed back her chair and stood up. “Now I must go upstairs and get the letter I wrote to Catherine last night. I want you to send a messenger with it today.”

  “I sent a message to Vasaro the day we arrived to tell her we’d arrived safely,” Jean Marc said.

  “You didn’t tell me.”

  “We don’t seem to be communicating in any fashion these days. It can’t last, Juliette.”

  “Yes, it can.” She tried to keep the desperation from her voice. “It must.” The late-morning sunshine streaming into the breakfast salon gilded the night-black of Jean Marc’s hair with indigo highlights and revealed the beautiful shape of his lips. She wanted to keep staring at him, but then, she always wanted to do that these days. It was as if, since she’d forbidden herself his touch, she couldn’t get enough of looking at him. She forced her gaze away from him and started for the door. “I’ll go get my letter. Even though there’s no urgency now, I’d still like it sent today.”

  He caught her wrist as she passed his chair. “I’ll purchase a carriage for you today.” He lifted her wrist to his mouth and his tongue caressed the sensitive blue-veined flesh.

  Juliette inhaled sharply. The tingling in her wrist was spreading through her arm, her entire body. “Let me go, Jean Marc.”

  “Why? You like it.” His teeth pressed against her wrist, nibbling delicately. “I like it. Do you know why I haven’t touched you since we left the Ile du Lion?”

  “Because I told you—”

  “Because I decided to show you how hungry we’d both be if we were deprived of each other,” Jean Marc said thickly. “In truth, I didn’t expect the hunger to be so sharp. You said you liked the way I pleasured you on the island. Come upstairs and I’ll show you a much more interesting—”

  “No!” She wrenched her hand away and stepped back. “I won’t do—”

  “Monsieur Etchelet would like to see you, Monsieur Andreas.” Robert stood in the doorway, carefully avoiding looking at Juliette’s flushed face. “I’ve shown him to the Gold Salon.” He hurriedly left the chamber.

  “François.” Juliette’s gaze flew to Jean Marc’s face. “What’s he doing here? How did he know we’d returned to Paris?”

  “Danton probably told him. I saw a few members of the convention when I called on Bardot yesterday.” Jean Marc rose to his feet. “And I imagine he’s here to express his displeasure at the way I parted company with him.”

  She frowned. “He’s a dangerous man. I’m going with you.”

  “To protect me?” His brows rose. “I’m touched you’re willing to lay down your life, if not your body, in my service. But I assure you, I’d far prefer the latter.”

  “Don’t jest.”

  “I’m not jesting.” Jean Marc turned and strolled toward the door. “Come along if you like. I don’t think François will become violent.”

  François nodded at both of them with a cool smile when they entered the salon. “Welcome back to Paris. I trust you had a successful trip?”

  Jean Marc nodded. “Quite successful. I regret you became too ill to accompany us. I hope the indisposition was only temporary?”

  “An extremely bad head and a worse temper. However, I got over both in time.”

  “I hoped you would.”

  “The object you sought is safe?”

  Jean Marc looked at him innocently. “What object?”

  A reluctant smile touched François’s lips. “Perhaps I’m in error, but Georges Jacques and I assumed you were seeking the same object after which Marat sent Dupree.”

  Jean Marc’s expression hardened. “I could have wished you’d told me Dupree had been sent to Spain.”

  “Perhaps I would have told you if I hadn’t been ‘taken ill.’ You encountered Dupree?”

  “Yes.”

  François looked quickly at Juliette. “He recognized you?”

  She nodded. “But Jean Marc killed him.”

  “Good.” An expression of savage pleasure flashed across François’s face before he turned to Jean Marc with his former composure. “Georges Jacques isn’t at all pleased I failed to obtain the object for him, but he would have been even less pleased to have it fall into Marat’s hands.”

  “Marat won’t have it.” Jean Marc met François’s gaze. “You can assure him of that.”

  François turned away. “Then I’ll leave you. I have to visit Georges Jacques at his home this afternoon. He hasn’t been at the convention all week.”

  “Danton’s not well?”

  “No, he’s not well at all,” François said, troubled. “His wife died last month and he’s been—” He searched for a word. “He’s not been acting reasonably.”

  Juliette had a sudden memory of the pretty woman who had taken her to Danton’s study. “How sad. She was young, Jean Marc.”

  François nodded. “Very young. Her death was unexpected and happened while Georges Jacques was in Belgium. When he returned, Camille Desmoulins said he went quite mad for a time. He made them dig up her coffin so that he could kiss her good-bye.” François shook his head regretfully. “I should have been with him.”

  “You weren’t in Paris?” Jean Marc regarded him curiously. “Where were you?”

  François hesitated. “Vasaro.”

  “You didn’t return immediately to Paris?”

  “No.”

  “When did you return?” Juliette asked.

  “Only a week before you arrived here.”

  “May I ask why?” Jean Marc inquired.

  François gazed at him levelly. “No, you may not. I bid you good day.” He turned on his heel and left the salon.

  “Wait!” Juliette caught up with François as he reached the front door. “Then you left Catherine only a few weeks ago. Is she well?”

  “Very well.”

  “Why don’t you look at me? She’s not ill?”

  “I told you she was well.” Fran
çois reached into the pocket of his trousers and drew out a folded piece of paper. “I’m glad you followed me. This is for you.”

  Juliette took the folded paper. “From Catherine?”

  “No.” François opened the door. “Not from Catherine.”

  Juliette frowned in puzzlement as she watched the door close behind him. His manner had been most peculiar-when she mentioned Catherine, and she was not at all certain she believed him when he said all was well at Vasaro. She absently unfolded the paper he had handed her and glanced down at it.

  She stiffened in shock. She knew that handwriting well.

  The paper contained only one line of script.

  I hereby grant in perpetuity the statue, the Wind Dancer, formerly the property of the royal house of Bourbon to Jean Marc Andreas.

  Marie Antoinette

  François had never seen Georges Jacques so haggard, his eyes glittering feverishly in his ugly face. It was probably the worst possible time to approach Danton, but all he could do was hope that even in deep despair, Georges Jacques hadn’t lost the shrewdness that had caused him to rise to greatness. In any case, François had little choice. “I want you to arrange an appointment for me at the Temple.”

  Danton slowly lifted his leonine head. “The Temple? Why?”

  François hesitated and then threw the dice. “Because I want to arrange the escape of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVII.”

  Danton stiffened and leaned back in his chair. “You joke.”

  “No,” François said quietly. “I want the appointment, Georges Jacques. I could have lied to you and told you there was some other reason I needed to be there, but time’s growing short and I’m done with lies.”

  Danton’s eyes were suddenly cold. “Then you’re a fool. A lie might have saved your life. Who bought you, François?”

  “No one.”

  “I know you. You hate aristos. You hate—”

  François shook his head. “I’ve been bribing the nobility out of the prisons and smuggling them out of France for the past two years.”

  Danton’s fingers tightened on the pen in his hand. “You did lie to me. You used me, you bastard.”

  “As you used me. Did I ever refuse a task you set for me?”

  Danton didn’t answer, his gaze on François’s face. “Why? Are you an aristocrat yourself?”

  François shook his head. “My mother is Basque, my father is an English physician. My real name is William Darrell. We lived in the mountains near Bayonne before the revolution, but I persuaded my parents it was safer to go to England when I decided on this course. They live in Yorkshire now.”

  “You consider yourself an Englishman?”

  François shook his head. “You know better.”

  “Then why?”

  “The Rights of Man,” François said simply. “They have to survive, but the bloodletting and corruption are washing them away. The Americans didn’t start cutting off heads after they won their battle for independence. If they had, the British would have come swarming back across the sea and they’d have been crushed. That’s what will happen to France if it doesn’t stop.” He met Dan ton’s gaze. “We both know it.”

  “What you say is treason.”

  “What I speak is reason. You’ve always told me the guillotining of the king was madness.”

  “The madness has already been committed. It’s over. We’re already at war with both Spain and England.”

  “And we’ll continue to be at war as long as the royal family remains in the Temple. It’s become a holy crusade to free them.” François urged softly, “Let me free them, Georges Jacques. They’re less of a danger out of the country than they are in the Temple. I’ll make sure no action of mine is traced back to you.”

  Danton was silent a moment. “You’ve taken a terrible risk coming to me. You’ve betrayed me. First Gabrielle, and now you. Betrayal …”

  François frowned in puzzlement. “Your wife didn’t betray you.”

  “She died. She left me alone.” Danton cleared his throat and straightened in his chair. “I’ll think on it. You may go.”

  François rose to his feet and stood looking at him. The risk was high. In his unstable frame of mind, Georges Jacques could go either way. “I’ll be waiting at my lodgings for an answer.”

  Danton smiled crookedly. “And you’re scared gutless my answer will be delivered by the National Guard.”

  “There’s always that possibility.” François bowed. “Au revoir, Georges Jacques.”

  “No.” Georges Jacques coldly gazed at him. “Whatever my decision, I will not see you again.”

  François experienced a sharp pang of regret Through these past two years they had been companions and, at times, even friends. Danton’s had been a clear, sane voice in a mumbling chorus of madmen. François’s life would be emptier and certainly lacking in color without Georges Jacques. “I understand.”

  He turned and left the study.

  The next day a messenger delivered an envelope to François’s lodgings. When he broke the seal and took out the document he found it to be a certificate of appointment for François Etchelet as special agent of the convention with orders to take up residence immediately in the Temple.

  “You’re alone again,” Nana said disapprovingly to Juliette. “I told you—”

  “But I’m not dressed at all richly,” Juliette interrupted. “I have on a linen gown just like your own, and I’m far less handsome than you and therefore should attract even less attention. You must tell everyone I’m your new apprentice.” She made a face. “It’s the truth, for I’ve found these fans impossible to make. I was far too sure of myself. It’s always been one of my most grievous faults. You must show me.” She paused, lowering her voice. “And there are questions I would ask.”

  Nana stood up. “Come with me. I have my materials on a work table in the back room of the café.”

  The small room to which Nana took Juliette contained only four kegs of wine against the far wall and a work table on which a variety of paper, ribbons, and wooden spines were scattered.

  “Sit down.” Nana sat down across from her at the table and reached for the scissors. “What questions?”

  “François. He’s one of you?”

  “His real name is William Darrell.” Nana began to cut the coarse paper. “I think that should answer you.”

  “For how long?”

  “Since the start of the revolution.”

  “Then when he came to the abbey he was trying to help us?”

  Nana shook her head. “He was sent to the abbey by Danton. He didn’t know what was going to happen there.” She shrugged. “But even after he saw what was happening he could do nothing to help without revealing who he was. That would have meant his value to us would be ended. It was saving a few then or perhaps thousands later.”

  “I don’t know if I could have made that decision.”

  “He’s been making those choices for the last two years,” Nana said. “Who will die. Who we can save.”

  “You admire him.”

  “He’s a brave man.” Nana’s expression became shuttered. “And now I’ll show you how to make these fans. What was your problem?”

  The subject of François was evidently closed as far as Nana was concerned.

  Juliette shrugged. “Everything. But I had most trouble gluing the two pieces together without destroying my painting.”

  “You’re using the wrong glue. I use only a special glue made for me of boiled-down shreds of hide, skin, and bones.”

  Juliette made a face. “It sounds revolting.”

  “It smells that way too, but it has firmness yet give. You must use only a little or it will destroy either the mount or the sticks.” Nana handed her a vial of glue and two wooden hoops. “Then you stretch the paper very tightly on the hoops and let it dry for two days. After that you can paint your picture.”

  “What about the sticks?”

  “After the fan is folded.” Nana gestu
red to a walnut mold into which were cut twenty grooves radiating out from the same spot. “You must get a machine like this and then take great care. You get no second chances when you’re pleating. Then the sticks are carefully inserted between the leaves. If the leaf is to be single, the sticks are attached to the back and some decoration must be painted on the back to hide them. You must let them dry a full day. More if you use silk or kidskin for your mount. Then you put a rivet through the sticks to hold them together and thread your ribbons and decorations.”

  Juliette laughed and shook her head ruefully. “Great heavens, and all this to alleviate the heat of the day.”

  “In the time of the pharaohs the fan was used as a symbol of power.” Nana’s eyes twinkled. “But I think Madame Pompadour and Madame Du Barry wielded far more influence with theirs.”

  “How did you learn all this?” Juliette asked curiously.

  “My husband’s mother owned a fan shop in Lyon. My father delivered the fans to Madame Sarpelier’s clients but he was never overfond of work. When I was thirteen he married me off to Jacques Sarpelier.” Nana made a face. “Poor Jacques had a cleft mouth and was ugly as sin, but everyone believed it was a fine bargain for all of them. Madame Sarpelier thought I’d make a fine worker in the shop, Jacques thought I’d make a hardworking servant in his house and meekly accept him in bed, my father thought to secure his position in her employ.”

  “And for you?”

  She grinned. “I enjoyed being in Jacques’s bed, though I shocked him with my lack of meekness. I found to my delight that le bon Dieu had amply compensated poor Jacques for his ugly face. The rest of their plans didn’t please me at all. When Jacques died I bid them all adieu and came to Paris to make my way in the world.”

  “It was a brave move for a woman alone. Have you ever regretted it?”

  “No, I’m a woman who likes her freedom. If I’d stayed in Lyon, I would have been a slave to my mother-in-law for the rest of her life. Here in Paris I’m slave to no one.”

  “How did you come to belong to a royalist group?”

  Nana chuckled. “What a lot of questions you ask. I assure you it wasn’t because I have any great fondness for the aristos. I couldn’t bear some of the ladies who came into the shop and looked at me as if I were a speck of dung.” She shrugged. “When I first came to work at this café I had little money and our friend, Raymond Jordaneau, was not overgenerous. However, soon I found out he was involved in something besides the café that paid extremely well. He was receiving regular payments from the king’s brother, the Comte de Provence, for helping aristos escape from the prisons.”